The Days We Count!

 

When was the last time you counted the days?

Not in a calendar sense, not with red circles or reminders on your phone - but truly counted the days. Day one. Day two. Day three. Waiting. Watching. Wanting something to begin… or something to end.

I recently asked a friend recovering from surgery the same question.
He paused and said, “I don’t even remember.”

So, I asked myself:
When was the last time I counted the days?

It was as if two parts of my mind were summoned into a quiet conference. One - the emotional, the heart - that stores life’s moments like pressed flowers in a diary. And the other - the rational, the analyst - that dissects and categorizes life like a spreadsheet.

Both answered. 

My emotional self took the lead. It didn’t hesitate. The memory arrived like a wave that doesn’t knock - it floods.
It was June 2022.

I remember counting down not for something to arrive, but for something to be over.
My mother had just suffered a stroke. The world didn’t just shift - it collapsed inward. That moment is etched into me like a scar you don’t see, but always feel.
I remember freezing. I remember wanting out of that reality. Each day that followed felt like climbing a staircase with no end. Six days of swirling fear, helpless prayers, and the piercing  silence of hospital corridors amidst of total chaos. 

I counted those days like someone drowning counts for air.

And yet, in that fog of uncertainty, hands reached out to hold mine.
Voices whispered, “I’m here.” People I didn’t expect showed up.
Some who I thought would - didn’t.
They say crisis reveals character. It also reveals company.

Even now, I’m grateful to the unseen power that heard my cries in the silence. And to the people who stood beside me - not with grand gestures, but with quiet presence. I learned, in those six days, what truly matters.

Then, my rational mind chimed in again.

It reminded me, we also count days when something beautiful is on the horizon.

A meaningful conversation you've been waiting to have
The relief of completing something you once thought challenging enough!
The peace of stepping away from chaos into calm
That quiet moment when your efforts finally feel seen
Or simply, a day that doesn’t begin with dread

Those are the countdowns of joy—we anticipate them with giddy excitement. We don’t want to “get through” those days, we want to race toward them. We lean into them like sunflowers chasing sunlight.

And then, it hit me.

There are two kinds of countdowns in life:

• The ones we want to escape.

• And the ones we can’t wait to embrace.

One is born from pain. The other from purpose.
One is survival. The other - celebration.

But both remind us of one powerful truth:
We are alive.
We are feeling.
We are in motion.

So what if…!

What if we could fill our lives with more “I can’t wait for it!” moments?
What if, instead of just surviving some days, we deliberately designed days we could savor in anticipation?

What if we built a life where the emotional and rational parts of us both smiled at the calendar - not with dread, but with delight?

Because when we look back, life won’t be measured by the years we lived, but by the days we counted.

So here’s to creating more countdowns worth the wait.

Not just ones we wish to end, but ones we wake up for - with wide eyes and a racing heart.

What are you counting down to today?

More importantly - 
Are you running away from it, or running towards it?

The Khali Dose Moment - A Journey Back in Time!

 

Picture this…

It was 1985.
Bangalore wasn’t yet drowning in chaotic traffic and blaring horns. The air smelled of earth, the mornings were quieter, and the sun didn’t rush to rise - it painted the sky slowly.  I was a little girl just stepping into the world of schoolbooks and satchels, wide-eyed and quietly watching the grown-up world whirl around me.

Mom and Dad were working parents - striving, strong, and selfless. We had just moved into a modest home on the then-outskirts of Bangalore, far from the city’s pulsing heart where my mother worked. She served at Sheshadripuram College, which started at 7:30 am sharp. Getting there from Banashankari was no easy feat—buses were sparse, long waits at dusty stops were the norm, and the city was still learning how to hustle.

But what I remember isn’t the struggle.

I remember the ritual.

Each morning, bathed in the golden hush of dawn, my mother would gently wake me up and get me ready - her fingers weaving love into every button of my uniform. My father would chip in with morning chores, and together, on our beloved old Priya scooter, we’d set off. I’d stand in front, hugging the handlebar, the wind kissing my cheeks. Mom would sit behind, holding her handbag and maybe a bit tensed. 

We would glide through near-empty roads lined with whispering trees, the sky above wrapped in gentle hues of orange and pink. The city yawned in silence, almost blessing our journey with stillness.

We’d drop mom at Ramakrishna Ashram, where she’d board bus #14. And then, with time still on our side before school began, my father and I had our moment.

He would steer the scooter toward a quaint little spot - Dwarka Hotel, at Bull Temple Road. A haven of hot steel tumblers, aromas of filter coffee, and the unmistakable charm of Khali Dose. We’d park the scooter, walk in hand-in-hand, and he’d order one single dose just for me—soft, warm, humble. He would often just sip a coffee, his eyes watching me eat like it was a celebration.
No noise. No phones. Just love, on a steel plate.    

That one year - before my school timings changed—those quiet, mundane mornings stitched themselves deep into the fabric of my memory.

And then… time happened.
Years passed. The city grew noisier, and so did life. I grew up. My parents grew older. The scooter is now a car. The routes changed, our routines altered. But some things - like taste, like love, like memories - never really leave you. They just wait.

Fast forward to June 2025.

I am now a grown daughter with a career, responsibilities, and a heart full of gratitude. My mother fills her days with non-stop chores, devotional singing and spiritual retreats; my father, with cheerful service and friendships that have lasted decades.

This week, my mom had a spiritual group singing ritual at NR Colony. I offered to drop her every day, just like she used to get me ready each morning back then. Yesterday, as we stepped out, I turned to my dad and said -

"Why don’t we drop Mom and then go to Dwarka… for a Khali Dose? Just like those days?"

He looked at me, his eyes twinkling, a smile rising from somewhere deep: “Let’s go,” he said.

So, we did.    

Same Dwarka.
Same Khali Dose.
Same father and daughter.

Only this time, I was driving.
This time, I paid the bill.
And this time, I had a smartphone to click a photo of our hot, brimming plates.

And somewhere between the softness of the dose and the spice of the chutney, I felt it - 
Time had folded onto itself.
The past and the present held hands.
We were no longer chasing memories; we were living them again.

Life has a beautiful rhythm - a quiet, cosmic beat that brings us back to what we cherish, if only we’re listening.

In a world obsessed with upgrades, sometimes it’s the old things that nourish us the most.

I’ve passed that hotel a thousand times.
I’ve eaten dose's(dosa's) at countless places.
But Dwarka is different.
It holds a chapter of my childhood.
And yesterday, I turned that page once more.

We often think joy comes in grand gestures, luxurious escapes, or lavish gifts.
But the soul knows better.
Joy is a khali dose shared with your father in a modest old hotel.
Joy is returning to a memory and realizing - you’ve come full circle.

As you read this, pause.
What’s that one memory from your childhood that still warms your heart?
What if you could relive it - not as a repetition, but as a reflection?

Sit on the other side of the table.
Be the one who pays.
Drive the one who once drove you.
Order that one thing you loved as a child.
Because nostalgia isn’t about going back - 
It’s about carrying love forward.

If you ask me,
This - this ability to relive small joys - is life’s greatest luxury.
It doesn’t cost much. But it gives you everything.

So go ahead… taste your khali dose moment.
You’ll be surprised how full it leaves your heart. 

The Making of Confidence: One Chore at a Time

I was inching my way through the ever-bustling Bangalore traffic, lost in the chaotic rhythm of honks and halts, when a podcast gently playing in the background mentioned the name “Smriti.”

And just like that, I was transported — not to the podcast’s story, but to a quiet classroom from years ago, where a 12th-grade girl named Smriti once sat. Fragile in spirit, painfully self-aware, and wrapped in the silence of low self-worth. She was the eldest child, overprotected and rarely allowed to step out into the world on her own. Her voice often trembled when she spoke, as if she had to cross an invisible wall of fear each time she opened her mouth.

But buried beneath that hesitation, there was a soft yet undeniable thirst — a thirst to grow, to break free, to become someone beyond her timidity. And that’s something people who’ve always been bold can never fully grasp. Confidence, to them, is a given. For someone like Smriti, it’s a mountain.

Just then, as I stood at a red light watching the countdown tick away, a small boy — maybe ten — dashed across the zebra crossing. A flash of childhood courage. And another flash of memory. Smriti used to be dropped off to my classes every day, even though she lived barely a kilometre away. Her father, cautious and protective, couldn’t imagine letting her walk alone.

I remember telling him, gently but firmly, “Let her try. Let her learn.”
But he replied, “There’s too much traffic. I’d rather be sure she’s safe.”

I didn’t push. After all, you can only take the horse to the water — drinking is a choice born of readiness.

But that image stayed with me — a father afraid, a daughter caught in cotton wool, and a childhood that never stepped out into the world.

And then I started noticing something. A pattern. A quiet truth that no textbook teaches:

• The ones who became confident early had to live life early — either by parental design or by circumstance.
• They had tougher days, sometimes not out of trauma, but out of necessity.
• They were involved — in chores, in errands, in daily decisions.
• They were asked to do things on their own. They were trusted with little responsibilities that later became the bedrock of belief in self.

Isn’t that how strength begins? Not in loud applause, but in small, silent wins.

When I visit rural schools, I often meet teenagers who carry themselves with surprising surety. Not polished, not fluent in English perhaps, but undeniably rooted. They help their parents in the fields, take care of siblings, know how to budget small amounts of money. Their lives don't give them the luxury of being protected.

And I wonder: Are they confident?
Yes. In many ways, far more than their urban counterparts.
They may hesitate in front of outsiders, maybe shy away from a crowd. But talk to them — in their language, in their space — and they shine. They know how to handle life. Because they’ve been handling it.

Government school children are the same — sit with them in their comfort zone, and their talent pours out like an unsung melody. It’s not lack of confidence — it’s often just unfamiliarity with the environment.

This thought sat with me until curiosity took over. I turned to research — and like a friend of mine always says, “If you’ve thought of it, ten thousand others have too.”

Harvard’s research confirmed it: children who are entrusted with chores, who are made responsible for tasks, grow up feeling capable. And when you feel capable, you begin to believe in yourself. That belief becomes esteem. That esteem builds confidence.

How simple!. How profound!.

Confidence is not a coat you wear — it is skin that thickens over time.

Not everyone needs to fight a battle to become brave. But we all need to do — to try, to fall, to fail, to succeed, to repeat. It’s not about shouting “I can do it!” from the rooftop. It’s about quietly telling yourself, Let me try. Let me try once again.

We often search for confidence in the wrong places — in applause, in image, in validation.

But maybe… confidence is born in smaller, quieter things — like walking alone to class for the first time. Like doing the dishes without being told. Like making a mistake and knowing the world didn’t end.

If you ask me today where confidence begins, I’ll say —
It begins at home, with a chore.
With a choice.
With the chance to try.

And if you're ever wondering whether to let someone "do it on their own," maybe the better question is —
"What will they believe about themselves if they do?"

That belief is the true beginning of self-confidence. One step at a time.

 

It’s Nothing… And Yet Everything

This morning unfolded in a way I hadn’t planned, but I’ll carry it with me for a long time I guess!

My dad and I had stepped out early on an errand. On our way back, we stopped at Brahmin’s Cafe in Hanumanthanagar — that modest, bustling place where the aroma of fresh filter coffee and piping hot idlis feels like home.

We had our breakfast, as Dad waited inside for our parcel , I stood quietly near the entrance sipping coffee, just watching the world pass by — the rhythm of life on the street, people rushing, pausing, chatting, honking, living.

Then I saw him.  

An old man walked slowly, almost painfully, with a walking stick. He wore a tucked-in faded brown shirt, slightly darker trousers, and carried a worn-out bag — fragile, pale, and almost invisible in the crowd.

Beside him walked another man — mid-40s perhaps — in a navy-blue T-shirt, holding a plastic bag with mangoes. He was gently speaking to the old man, almost as if he knew how to speak to silence.

They moved barely a metre before the younger man helped him sit on a small steel stool near the entrance. He walked inside, and as he passed by me, I smiled and said softly,

“I’m proud of you.”

He smiled back humbly and said,

“It’s nothing. He’s old… I just offered him some coffee.”

That sentence stayed with me.

A few moments later, he came out again holding a steaming hot cup of coffee, handed it to the old man, and they shared a few words — words that clearly meant more than they sounded.

Then he came back in and said to me,

“He hasn’t had anything since morning.”

I instinctively responded,

“May I join hands? I’ll get him something to eat.”

He hesitated with kindness,

“That’s okay. It’s nothing.”

I smiled back and said,

“Exactly — it’s nothing. You gave him coffee, I’ll get him breakfast.”

He nodded gently and said,

“Just two idlis… he wants it parcelled.”

I walked to the counter, paid for the food, and handed him the coupon. He looked at me warmly,

“Thank you. Are you from here?”

“Yes,” I replied, “Bangalore.”
He introduced himself — Anand from Mumbai, visiting his brother nearby.

I told him my name, introduced my dad, who was quietly watching the scene unfold from a distance — perhaps wondering how two strangers suddenly seemed like old acquaintances.

As I walked back to where Dad stood, the sights around me felt different — like I had suddenly become part of the city’s heartbeat. I noticed people sitting on the steps — a couple laughing over coffee, someone deeply immersed in a call, another quietly finishing a dosa, and our old man, now trying to chat with an elderly woman beside him. It felt like…

The world operates on its own frequency — invisible, yet beautifully orchestrated.

In a tiny pocket of time, three strangers — who never knew each other before and may never meet again — created something ordinary, yet extraordinary.
One got to eat, two got to give.
And in that moment, everyone was full — not just stomachs, but hearts.

As we walked back to the car, my dad asked me,

“Who was that? Do you know him?”

I smiled and said,

“No. I don’t know him.”

He was puzzled,

“Then why did you speak to him? Why did you get food for that old man?”

I laughed and replied,

“He gave coffee. I just gave breakfast. None of us know each other.”

He paused… and then smiled.
A simple, proud smile that only a father can give — the kind that says “I saw you.”

As we sat in the car, I turned to him and said,

“You know Dad, Mom taught me something long ago. She always says — ‘Whenever you feel like you can help someone, don’t overthink. If it doesn’t hurt you to give, then give it immediately. Because the window to serve is small — and sacred.’”

What I did today? It was just a small echo of her wisdom.

💭 And here’s what stayed with me:

Kindness is rarely about the big gestures. It’s in the tiny moments, when no one is watching, no spotlight shines, and no applause follows.
It looks like “nothing.”
But to someone else… it might mean everything.

When One Missed Call Becomes a Verdict

Some friendships don’t break with betrayal. 
They don’t end with conflict.
Sometimes, they simply wither under the weight of one unexamined belief.

Decades of friendship. Laughter. Loyalty. Conversations. Silence.
And then one missed call.

There was a day—one I don’t even remember clearly - when, he says, I didn’t answer his call. And perhaps I didn’t. Life may have caught me off guard, and I might have had my own reasons, though none of them were meant to hurt. I vaguely recall that he was scheduled for surgery the following week, and I had every intention of meeting him before that. It was raining heavily that day, and amidst personal priorities and a rushing mind, I just couldn’t make it. I wish I remembered the exact sequence better. But what I do remember - with complete clarity - is everything I did afterward.

I called. Many times.
I sent messages. Wishes. Voice notes.
Not out of guilt, not out of compulsion—but out of care.

No response.

Yesterday, after all this time, I saw him. I smiled, and I spoke.
He didn’t.


His words cut—not because they were loud, but because they were laced with cold conviction.

“If someone doesn’t answer my call, I feel ignored. And if I feel ignored, I hate them. That’s how I am. That’s my discipline.”

I stood there, holding silence in one hand and reason in the other.
I asked gently, “What about the calls I made? The messages I sent after?”
There was no answer. Only more righteousness.
As the decision had already been made.
And one missed call was enough to erase eighteen years.

Later during the evening, I settled and started thinking of the ‘Birthplace of Stupidity’ & ‘Emotional Absolutism’.

There’s a kind of foolishness that doesn’t shout.
It hides behind labels like discipline, principle, self-respect.
It doesn’t examine. It just concludes.

This is what I call emotional absolutism - a rigid belief system where a single incident becomes the full story.
Where one missed moment of imperfection becomes a verdict.

In such minds, there is no room for grace. No elasticity of thought.
Only binary definitions - 
Answer me or you don’t care.
Miss my call, and you’re out.
Fall short once, and you’re unworthy.

They don’t question why they feel ignored and are they drooling under assumptions!
They don’t examine how their beliefs were formed!
They don’t revisit the memory with compassion.!
They simply rationalize their withdrawal—and call it discipline.

A positive label of discipline to protect their ego, to avoid admitting they might be wrong or overly sensitive, to feel powerful is indeed a rationalized rigidity.

I wondered why people choose this route when there are so many easy ones –

Because it’s easier to hate than to hurt.
It’s easier to hold a grudge than to hold a conversation.
It’s easier to rewrite the story than to face vulnerability.

And perhaps, for many, it’s a hidden ego defense: If I pretend, I don't care, I won't feel the ache of being cared for imperfectly.
If I reject first, I won't feel the sting of perceived rejection.

So instead of repairing, they retreat.
Instead of letting go, they form phony rules.
Instead of reconnecting, they redraw boundaries—on paper that once held deep trust.

When One Incident Becomes Everything - It’s precarious! - this tendency to let one moment, one missed call, one forgotten word, one argument, one misunderstanding, define the depth of a relationship.

I can quote many instances where in - 

·         A friend stops talking over a misunderstood message.

·         A partner walks away after one argument.

·         A parent condemns a child over one mistake.

All because someone made their hurt a law, and expected the world to obey.

They forget—relationships are not courtrooms.
They are not places for judgments or penalties.
They are living, breathing entities—where imperfection isn’t just inevitable, it’s essential.

The Lesson I’ve Learnt - There would always be a hidden face of an individual which you will get to know one day. 

I don’t chase. I don’t compel.
I don’t demand to be heard.
Because any relationship that needs to be persuaded - is already gasping.

But I do believe in sorting things out.
I believe in grace, in the benefit of doubt, in mature conversations.
I believe in second chances, when the foundation is strong.

Yet, I’ve learned a deeper truth: You can’t reason with someone so consumed by their own narrative - so fixated on being right—that they’ve gone blind to everything else. When a person is emotionally invested in their version of the story, even truth becomes unwelcome. They’ll ignore facts, dismiss intentions, and sacrifice connection - all just to protect the fragile illusion of being justified. Even if it costs them their peace, their relationships, even their own dignity - they’d rather hold onto blame than face balance.

You can’t force growth in someone who worships their own beliefs more than shared humanity.
And you can’t sustain a bond where ego becomes the gatekeeper.

A Note to all who is reading this -

The next time someone misses your call or they missed to call back — pause!
Next time when some one did not reply in line with your expectations - hold on!
Ask yourself: Am I judging years by just one day and an incident?
Am I letting one moment erase a history of care and shared values?

And if you’ve been on the receiving end of such treatment - let this remind you:

Their silence says more about their wounds than your worth.

“Some people don't grow cold because they were ignored. They grow cold because they confuse discipline with emotional absolutism. And that is not strength - it is simply unhealed hurt trying to look powerful.”

Forgive, if you must. Walk away, if you must.
But never let someone else’s narrow lens shrink your heart or your perspective.

Because maturity lies not in perfection, but in the ability to examine, expand, and empathize.